Bahrain Getaway pt 2 – The Brothel Incident

I arrived at the airport before the rest of the group by four hours. Bahrain International Airport was small and hassle free. In a few minutes I got my passport stamped, my luggage picked up and scanned, and I headed to Costa to pamper myself.

I bought 7 books from Dubai Airport (and I bought another 7 the day before). One of the books was for Sophie Kinsella but I didn’t feel particularly blond that day, so I ended up reading The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. It’s a good book, and from the few chapters I read it appeared to be a more elaborate take on my social psychology course and the other book I read last month entitled You Can Be Happy No Matter What.

The clock ticked by slowly, but it eventually was time to greet the new arrivals.

We went to the hotel reservations section where one of the guys did the booking. Murphy’s Laws – all of them – applied since then.

Idiot: Sorry sir the hotel canceled your reservation
Friend: *#*@%!^&&#(#^!

While my friend argued and raised his voice (almost loud enough to get the security’s attention), I went to have a seat to just think my options through. My stress and fatigue got the worst of me and I suggested to my friend that I would book back to Dubai. He ignored me because he knew I wouldn’t do it.

Bastard.

We gave up on the reservation and took matters to our own hands. We headed out onto the streets of Manama.

Hours later of not finding a hotel (and we were all tired and I was particularly sleepy), we ended up in probably the only place thay can accommodate us on short notice: A brothel (بيت دعارة).

KJ: Are you INSANE?! I am NOT sleeping in a BROTHEL!
Friend: 3andak 7al tani!
Other Friend: It’s just one night…
KJ: IT’S A BROTHEL! I am NOT sleeping there!

We slept there.

It’s probably mandatory that every man be exposed to such a place. The brothel had no doors, per se, except for plastic flaps that you usually find in supermarkets separating the staff entrance of the meat and poultry section from the rest. On the right was one long bar lined up with at least 15 or so “entertainers”. They were watching us as we checked in.

The room was a different story. The carpet smelled of fungus. I was too worried about the bed and decided to sleep on the chair, but given my own fetishes I thought that the bed was the safer option. There was no mattress. None. The beds were bare-bone, structural beds with covers. I guess wood-banging is part of the experience. The sheets looked “clean” enough, though, but I wouldn’t place any bets.

The loo was a drama, something out of a horror movie. Cobwebs all over (and in the room too)… the toilet didn’t seem to have been cleaned for ages. The bathtub is composed of a never-heard-of-before incurable viral outbreak. You can almost see it pulsating with former bodily fluids, rust, spots, and all sorts of microscopic heathens.

The only clean aspects of the room were our own luggage and the soap and shampoo as they arrived in sealed unopened containers.

We thought it best to sleep as little as possible there. While we changed our clothes to go for an all-nighter dinner, someone knocked on the door. Expecting our friends from the adjacent room, I called them in. The door didn’t open. My friend went to open the door. Note that he’s a conservative Palestinian from Hebron.

An “entertainer” stood before him, smiling.

It took us a whole minute to register the scene.

My friend’s face turned all sorts of colors, all quite visible in the abnormally dark room. The poor woman felt her life was ending right there and then. She probably remembered the first day she joined the world of brothelhood. She remembered the day she sacrificed her virginity to send money back to her parents. She remembered her boyfriend, upset somewhere halfway across the world at his inability to support her, for having her to go all through this. He must have been dying of jealousy. She remembered the good old days when she used to go out with her friends, on their “day off”, to be normal human beings. She wondered, right there and then, if any of this might have been different; if the door she knocked on then was answered by her husband or boyfriend, instead of a stranger for a quick buck.

My friend almost pushed her away and avoided her like the plague, and he shut the door on her reality.

Friend: KINAN SHU HAD!
KJ: shu metwaqqe3 yan3i :P

We went out for dinner and didn’t come back till dawn. I don’t know how I slept. In the morning I removed the filthy shower nozzle, wore my slippers and showered outside the bathtub, doing my absolute best not to touch anything but my own slippers.

We checked out of the brothel, and continued hotel hunting.

You thought it’s over? Oh noes… see you in part three!

Wrecking Havoc

It has been a while since I have written a NY story! I had a temporary memory relapse and all of a sudden I forgot them all :S (Sarah is going to kill me now) but they are coming back to me.
Anyway.Earlier in our trip to NYC we didn’t know where we will be staying. Everyone was all over the tri-state area and my dad thought it ridiculous, so, in all his wisdom, he congregated us to stay over in Marriot Marquis hotel until the issue was resolved. Of course, if I knew how to orgasm back then, I would have done so – I was that excited.

You see, there is something about hotels that appeal to me. It isn’t the plush carpet or the view or the fact that there are people who do your beds and do your laundry and everything. And nevermind the TV with as few channels as possible, with all the good stuff on pay-per-view (it took me 3 years to know it wasn’t paper-view). It isn’t about the built-in closet or the shoe polishers or EVEN the fluffy beds.

It was all about the bathroom. Yes, the lovely marble bathrooms, with the generous sink (good for later purposes when I became older), amazingly enormous titanic mammoth of a mirror, and a luxurious bathtub. And oh my God… the Grohe taps and knobs and faucets. And the wonderfully multifunctional shower, with 873,715 different modes that make the water leave it with grace, and artistically pour over your body, effectively doing what that mode is supposed to do.

Of course, though, all these bathgasms would wait till later. I spent my younger years turning the knob on “massage”, which effectively pours out the water in short bursts, which, when viewed from afar, looked like machine gun bullets.

Which is precisely what I needed.

I would firstly align all bottles within 900 kilometers into lovely single files to form a grid of victims. I would align them on the generous sink and floor, and, for extra challenge, on hangers and other floating devices.

I would then play war. Yes, it was an epic water battle between me – with my powerful shower machine gun – and the hopelessly hapless bottles with no self defence mechanism (later on though I would get shampoo in my eyes and weep for days). So after the stage is set, I let loose of the water and within minutes I have the whole Bottle Population annihalated. It is genocide I tell you. I scream with glee as I watch bottle after bottle topple over, often spilling their contents on the miraculously unslippery floor (when dry of course). I would then rearrange them and repeat as needed, until my whole family is dying to pee or have suspected I grew up enough to take longer showers. I wouldn’t be doing that for years to come.

So anyway, after my bathgasms are over with, Sarah would have arrived and we would go about and do what all children in a hotel do: Wreak havoc. She and I would ride the elevator to the 91,736th floor (40th in real life) and would then find ourselves some foliage. We would then extract all the little brown pebbles that coat the soil, and head over to the atrium. From there, we would be dropping our projectiles onto the people dining and lounging below. It was a unique experience – especially thrilling when you get to have a pebble thrown into a glass or hit the stupid piano woman. They literally INVITE you to aim at them. Who told them to turn the open-side of the glass up? It is illogical and just screams to us kids to go bully.

And we’d never get caught. We always switch floors and locations. But then when we started spitting, well, that was another story :P